Disclaimer: All content is Tolkien’s, Kortirion only plays with the box.
Huge flakes fell softly, cold, silent, relentless. He leant his head back, open-mouthed to catch the delicate ice on his tongue. Overhead the sky was golden-grey, billowing with pregnant clouds. He shivered under his heavy cloak; a gift, fur-lined, embroidered, really far too grand for his tastes – but he was king now. His courtiers insisted he looked the part.
His boots cracked through the settled snow as he retraced his path, remembering another storm – terrible, fierce, wizard-born. Caradhras… they had all nearly perished. And after… the only way to warmth was with another’s body. Aragorn shivered – but not from cold.